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COtVRIGHT DEPOSm 



Series of First Volumes : Number One 



OPEN SHUTTERS 



ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 






Many of the poems included in this volume 
have appeared in The Open Road, The Lyric, S4N, 
The Pagan, Voices, The Lyric WeSt, New Numbers, 
Tempo, American Poetry, and the Boston Transcript. 

Also, two of the poems are included in Wil- 
liam Stanley Braithwaite's Anthology of Massachusetts 
Poets. 



Copyright, 1922 

by 
Will Ransom 



>j c .. C 'i 



vn 22 



©CI./ GB 103 4 



To 
GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY 

Poei and Friend 



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AWAKENING 

This wind, 

cold and purple-edged, 
cuts little holes in my soul, 
deep jagged holes 

criss-crossing 
in blood-red lines. 

Before this, it was diflferent, 
this wind — 

before this it was sensuous, 
gentle, caressing, soothing . , 

Before this, you were here too ! 



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BUDDHA 

Before a golden shrine, 

Massive with light, 

Glittering, 

Dazzling, 

There stood one day a priest 

Of Old Cajinga 

And many people. 

Bowing, beseeching, 

Salaaming, whimpering, 

Mottled orange, violet, red, green. 

All mingling in homage. 

So gorgeous, entrancing. 
So ancient, alluring 

And the Buddha frowns. 

Incense rises perfumed. 

Wreathing in ringlets, 

Purple, 

Curling, 

Pungent with sandalwood. 

Music floats in the air. 

Soothingly Oriental. 



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So mystic, enchanting, 
So bizarre, amazing 

And the Buddha frowns. 



The priest kneels 

In suppHcation speaking, 

Rumbhng, 

Groveling, 

Hollow words sans meaning 

To the green god. 

Majestically impressive 

And carven of jade. 

So secret, astounding. 
So solemn, imposing 

And Bill the Buddha frowns. 



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SPRING FEAR 

Dear Heart, when spring comes back 
each year, it seems 
Once more to kindle hope and joy anew 
And once again I live my youthful dreams. 
Giving my unabated love to you. 

The softened music of an April rain 
Playing hushed nocturnes 

through the apple trees, 
Deep-purple violets firinging the lane — 

Oh, we have grown old along with these. 

And yet, somehow I have a dread of springs 
That grows more poignant 

with the passing years ; 
Once I was filled with joy for new-born things. 
Now I sit quietly, hiding my tears ! 



LOVE AUTUMNAL 

My love will come in autumn-time 
When leaves go spinning to the ground 
And wistful stars in heaven chime 
With the leaves' sound. 

Then, we shall walk through dusty lanes 
And pass beneath low-hanging boughs 
And there while soft-hued beauty reigns 
We '11 make our vows. 

Let others seek in spring for sighs 
When love flames forth from every seed; 
But love that blooms when nature dies 
Is love indeed! 



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REGRET 

Slowly, I climbed the narrow, winding lane, 
A lane of magic, as it was that night 
In May when you and I, 

our hands clasped tight. 
Went up together; and I felt again 
The dew-cooled grassy slopes, 

and heard your voice : 
"Live! live!" you cried, "love is the best, 

not power. 
Or fame, or worldly things. 

Love blooms a flower 
For golden Youth to pick. 

'Tis yours ! Rejoice ! " 

Ah! if I had not turned and answered, "No," 
My Hfe would not have been 

mere emptiness . 
Below, the town lay wrapped 
in peacefialness. 
The stars, the fields — 

they had not answered so — 
They still remained the same 

as when you said, 
" Rejoice ! " and I said, " No "... 
and now you 're dead. 



INGRATITUDE 

It seems so queer — so wrongly queer 
To walk along this moon-flecked way 
And find the flowers in blossom here — 
How can they stay ? 

Not one lone birch tree bows its head 
And silver poplars have grown higher 
Since when she walked with silent tread 
And eyes afire. 

This was her road — she loved it so ! 
Each flower kissed her fairy hands ; 
And now she's gone — can't something show 
It understands? 



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APRIL TRYST 

I will return, when April sings again 

In wavering half-tones to the sleeping hills, 

And silver clouds have left warm drops of rain 

Lingering in cups of moon-drenched daffodils. 

I will return, when soft-eyed Spring returns, 

And all the world is rustling with her wing, 

When cooling winds bend modest green-clad ferns 
And kiss dead grasses from their slumbering. 

I will return, for how can I forget 

That night of love, born in the swooning blue 
Of April ? I have not forgotten yet 

And some such night I will return — will you? 



HOME-COMING 

Now that you are coming home 
Will the syringas kneel 
White and reverent? 

Under a dazed moon 

you have caressed them ; 
In the chill rain 

you have given your kisses, 
Night after night, 
Coming down the long path, 
Loving and fearless, 

you have opened your heart. 

Now that you are coming home 
Will they kneel 
White and reverent? 



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ON AND ON 

On and on 

Through the arches 
Of the mist-wrapt bridge 
The angry waters 
Swirl unceasingly. 

Faint sprites 
Of sundust 
Sprinkle the air 
With perfumed hopes. 

Dreaming of youth 
And adolescence 
Pale-hued Venus 
Comes into the west 
Hesitating and blushing 
As though to hide 
From the sun's last rays. 

And still the waters flow 
Sometimes calmly 
Sometimes frothing 
But always 
On and on. 



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TINSEL 

I used to think the world to be 
A tinsel ball of revelry. 

A place of joy and happiness 

Where one might laugh with carelessness. 

A world that flung its night away 
And tolerated only day. 

Within whose arms the harshest voice 
Was soft and sweet as though by choice. 



I quite forgot a tinsel ball 

Is crushed as if 't were not at all ! 



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EYES 



Deep violets 
with a hint of poppies 
flaming through a mist 
of moon-spun willows 
dripping wet pearls 
from silver leaves. 

ii 

Brown tassels of corn 
weeping after rain 
fearful to raise their plumes 
lest the passionate sun 
leave them dry and withered. 

iii 

The gods of Olympus 

holding solemn court 

in a blue pavilion 

with openings 

where the glint of steel 

strikes through occasionally. 



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SPARKS 

Always upward 
The glowing logs 
Crackling and sputtering 
Throw their fiery cinders 
To the great blue happiness 
Of nature. 

Twisted chairs and sagging lounges 

Heavy with glittering costliness 

Stretch themselves 

Like lazy tigers 

In pure contentment. 

And all these things 
Within the room 
Look on and wonder 
As each new spark 
Flies on its way. 

Yet there is no sound 
Nor stir of stagnant hope 
From chair or lounge 
To do the same. 

For they like men 
Can look and look 
And yet they do not see. 



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BURLEY )VOODS 

Dreamily — 

Sleeping woods and a cool wind blowing, 
A flowery slope where life is glowing . 

Faster, with a swing — 

Green willows bend 
And intertwine 
Above a winding lane. 
Where fragrant scents 
Of fir and pine 
Come like celestial rain. 

Pale diamond spears 

Of sunlight thrust 

Their way through every space ; 

Tall grasses wave 

And brush the dust 

With slow majestic grace. 



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And overhead 

An oriole 

Alights and srans to sing. 

As shadows dance 

And soft clouds roll 

And leaves keep whispering. 

Softly, almost a whisper - 

A shady path, 
Far-reaching trees . 

Where else is beauty 
Such as these? 



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THE OLD CATHEDRAL 

Solemnly, 
Sadly . . . 
The Old Cathedral 
Chants a midnight warning 
Through its clinging robe 
Of spectral fog. 

Wavering lights 
In the street below 
Shimmer with frenzy 
Like gems on the inky cloak 
Of an ugly demon. 

A door of glass , 

Tinkles 

As if in mockery 

To the raucous bark 

Of an angry dog. 



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Coasting 

On the sleeping air 
Comes the shrieking tone 
Of a policeman's whistle 
Interrupting a waterfall 
Of incensed voices. 

And all is silent 

Once more 

While the Old Cathedral 

Chants to the hovering fog 

Solemnly, 

Sadly 



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RUPERT BROOKE 

In Observance of His Birth, 
August 3, 1887. 

Sometimes I feel his presence at my side 
To view this life that once he found so fair, 
While through the still and fragrant summer air 
Sweet chords of music drift and fireflies ride. 

And then, perhaps, he speaks of things held dear, 
Of rainbows, flowers, and footprints in the dew ; 
Such things which all the world should love, he knew. 
And tells to me— and I — I love to hear. 

August 3, 1920 



/IN OLD COLONIAL HOUSE 

Standing in ironical silence. 
White, green-shuttered and haughty. 
It remembers the fading past 
And shudders at the comparison. 



O/iPi/ 

Sh»ffpi< 

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TRANSPLANES 

From Washington and Winnipeg, 

from cities east and west, 
Great 'planes go flashing through the blue 

on high and distant quest; 
Deep amber-hued and flaming red, 

with eyes in front and rear, 
The mammoth, swarming transplanes 

speed round the hemisphere. 

Far above the murky clouds 

that warn of storm below, 
They waver not a second, 

but fast and faster go ; 
They drone high over field and farm, 

across the southern skies. 
And roar above the ranges 

where snow like silver lies. 

Piercing through a bluish haze 

along a lonesome trail 
With a whizzing, dream-like plunging 

they nose-dive down a vale. 
Then out across a river, 

near by a city's towers 
Where pale-green parks and crimson roofs 

seem bits of summer flowers. 



Coasting back from northern lands, 

ice-capped and dazzling white, 
The broad-winged, whirring transplanes 

go flashing on their flight. 
Over seas and prairies 

throughout the world in quest 
From Washington and Winnipeg, 

from cities east and west. 



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POPPY-TIME IN THE ARCTIC 

The cliffs of ice are singing 

as the wind sweeps softly by, 
The air is filled with music 

of the people of the sky 
And barren lands are laughing 

with a smile of purest gold 
For it's poppy-time in the Arctic 

and the world has just been told. 

The long cold night is over 

and the day has come again 
To cheer the hearts of northern men 

with comfort after pain; 
And what if one has suffered 

at the strength of the wintry blast ': 
There's an end to gloom in the Northland 

and the end is here at last. 

Just cups of yellow sunshine — 

but xhey mean so much to me 
Way up here in the Northland 

where a man is really free. 
For one may see the dawning 

with God at every hovu: 
Of the only peace that is truthful — 

and it lies within a flower! 



SONG 



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Let me be great, as stars are great, 
Singing of love, not of hate. 

Love for sweet and simple things 
Like clouds and sea-shell whisperings, 

Cool autumn winds, pale dew-kissed flowers. 
Thin coils of smoke and granite towers. 

Snow-capped mountain peaks that flash 
High above the river's crash. 

Shrill songs of birds and children's laughter. 
Soft -grey shadows trailing after 

Sunbeam sprites that seek the woods 
And lose themselves in solitudes. 

All these I '11 love, never hate, 
And loving them, I will be great ! 



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ROMANCE ORIENTALE 
A Song of Morocco 

Belle nuit, nuit d 'amour 
Speed on, Moktar Bey! 

The moon gleams white on the crumbhng wall. 
The suk-stones ring as the sharp hoofs fall, 
Ta' ala! ta' ala! why do you crawl 
O Moktar Bey! 

Alcazar lies in purple sleep, 
The mosques rise high from the grotesque heap, 
Ta' ala ! ta' ala ! why must you creep 
O Moktar Bey! 

For in a court of a thousand flowers, 

A lady waits my coming, 
Her red lips meet like twin rose bowers, 

And softly she is humming : 

helle nuit, nuit d' amour, 

belle nuit, nuit d 'amour . . 

Mohammed lives! the minarets 
Are painted black in silhouettes. 
Faster ! dear comrade, ere the moon sets 
O Moktar Bey! 



Of course, it hurts — the long, long ride 
With sorocco winds burning your side; 
But, comrade, ta' ala ! we have not died 
O Moktar Bey! 

There lies the court of a thousand flowers. 

See ! she waits my coming. 
Her red lips meet like twin rose bowers, 

And softly she is humming: 

belle nuit, nuit d' amour, 
belle nuit, nuit d' amour 

Praise Allah! O Moktar Bey! 



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CONVENTION 

When I catch a glimpse of you, 
An irritating glimpse of you 
Turning some distant corner, 
My body gives a sudden twinge 
And I want to run 
Shouting your name. 

But ray companions 

Continue their empty discussion 

Of indemnities 

And foreign trade 

In the same calm, monotonous fashion 

As before; 

And I remain listening. 



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CYNICISM 

Day by day, 

I have watched them from a window, 

Building a mansion towards the sky, 

Strong beams and granite blocks, 

Windows, doors, shingles, blinds, 

I have seen them assembled piece by piece, 

And now it is finished; 

Nothing can conquer it, they say, 

Neither wind nor fire — 

It is the best that money can buy. 

And yet I must smile. 

For in my heart 

A strong house has crumbled to ashes. 



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THEME FOR STRINGS 

I have found a paradise 

In a far place 
Where the wild-rose dances 

With wind-blown grace. 

High upon a sleepy hill 
Watching the sea 

With the cool grass singing 
A song for me. 

Yet, it 's such a lonely place 
To dream in long; 

There 's so much beauty 
And so much song! 



INTERLUDE 

The fragrance of violets is on my lips. 
I have flung aside the tapestry of passion. 

Outside, 

The heat hangs sullenly over the streets 
Like a huge monster tantalizing its prey 
Before striking. 

Gruff voices and shrill 
Clash in the air, 
Rising from the dust and sweat 
Of their birthplace. 

Violets in scum.-' ... I wonder. 



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PORTRAIT 

She comes to this bridge on misty nights in May 
And watches the river go rushing to the sea, 
Sounding Hke some bass instrument, 
Grumbling a song of discontent 
Instead of ecstacy. 

And through the long, damp, desolate hours, 

While stars glow dully like summer flowers 

Glimpsed through a dusty window-glass, 

She walks with carefully-measured tread 

And low-bowed head, 

Within a cool arcade. 

Solemn and staid 

Of sea-sprayed jade, 

Pausing a while 

With a wistflil smile 

As a church-bell chimes 

From a dome of light 

Marking the town. 

Hidden from sight 

In the dark, gloomy mass 

Of the fog-gray night. 



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The scent of wet lilacs sweetens the air, 
The chirping of crickets is everywhere. 
It seems almost that the night has a voice, 
A faint, ghostly voice that is calling: 
■'Rejoice! 

Dance and sing! 

The trees are green 

And whispering 

With mad desire 

And youthful fire 

In honor of reigning spruig!" 



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TO AN EAST SIDE KID 

Dazzle 'em, kid ! Dazzle 'em ! 

Don't go 
Like the rest 
To the scrap-heap. 
You 've got charm, little girl ; 
You 're long on looks ; 

They belong to you — 
They're yours! 

They 're your gift, 

They 're your pride. 

Better 

And more valuable than wealth. 

Get out in the world ; you can 't hurt it. 
Ease out of the slime, 

the dirt, 

the filth, 
And play! 

Smile, little girl ! 
Dance, little girl ! 

Sing! 

Laugh ! 
Live! 

Dazzle 'em, kid ! Dazzle 'em ! 



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SO IT GOES 

Continually boasting 

Of her distinguished ancestors, 

And walking as haughtily as a goddess 

On the downtown streets 

She made one feel 

Like a pebble 

Next to a marble pillar. 

But three nights ago 

In her father's Italian garden . 

Her barriers were completely shattered ; 

And strange to say 

Her kisses were no different from a shop girl's. 



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NIGHT SCENE 

There's a sort of trembling quiet 
In a long, white road 
Under the moon. 

An avenue of whispers 

Where trees, standing gaunt and solemn, 

Dangle their leaves like fingers 

At a passing breath of air. 

It is a place of lovers' dreams. 
Of hallowed memories on silver feet 
Tinkling through the cool light of the moon 
Like the sound of a crystal waterfall. 

Only a drunken god 
Can walk boisterously 
On such a road 
In the dead of night. 



IN SALEM TOWN 

Quaint gabled houses squat and frown 
Along the streets in Salem Town, 
And meeting elm-trees sway and nod 
In memory of those who trod 
The winding streets in days gone by 
When gay romance lured men to die. 

What must they think this modern day 
When things rush madly on their way 
Along the streets in Salem Town 
Where gabled houses squat and frown ? 



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TO A DEBUTANTE 

Why should I adore you — 
You have never cried 
For outdoor beauty — - 
You have lived inside. 

Lived in stuffy parlors 
With gossips and tea, 
Flaunting rich laces 
And silk hosiery. 

Tell me, is there beauty 
In a smoke-iilled hall, 
In painted faces 
With an empty drawl .•* 

God! will you never 

Love the south wind's croon 

Or run out naked 

To dance with the moon? 



PASSIONALE 

Dance for me, O moon-maiden ! 

Writhe your body like a serpent ! 
On the cool sands 
Keep time with the waves 

Dance for me ! 

You are a sword-flash 

in the star-light, 
A white moth beating its wings 

against the sky . 
Toss your head! 
Quiver with passion ! 
I am your lover, your betrothed, 
I am your master, your lord, 
Dance ! 
Dance for me! 



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SNOW 

Through the cold night, 
The wind howls 

and the snow falls 
incessantly. 

Tears of death 
Making the trees silver, 
The streets ghastly, 
And the buildings 

like corpses 

under white sheets. 

In the houses 

the ruler is sleep, 
In the streets 

only the arc-lights are wakeful. 
Both inside and outside 

there is no sound 

save of the wind 

gnawing and tearing 

on its way. 



Whoo! whoo! it shrieks 
And little children, wide-eyed, 

draw up soft blankets 

and shiver. 

While ever the storm roars 
Louder — fiercer 

and the snow falls 
incessantly. 



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ETCHING 

Her eyes were like cold rapiers 

Clashing 

In flames of bluish green 

Which made the conscience 

Stand still, as in a great cathedral, 

And ask: How have I sinned, O Lord? 



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IGNORANCE 

Along the street the people pass 

And see the world as a looking-glass 

Reflecting themselves as they go by 

Tilting their heads to the sun-washed sky, 

Proudly snug in their gilded spheres, 

They stalk like monarchs throughout the years. 

But oh, how little those people seem 

When viewed at night by the pale stars' gleam, 

Just petty frail parts of a cosmic thing, 

They live and die ere blossoming, 

Never to know that greatness sings 

Not in heads, but in hearts of things. 



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THE WORLD 

There was laughter, and song, and rejoicing. 
The night of the Mardi Gras, 
And the air was quivering with music 
And the white Carmelia. 

Now the laughter and song are forgotten. 
The flowers have withered away ; 
For the world is ever a cynic 
And joy is but for a day. 



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WARNING 

Oh, I have kept a room for you 
Wherein my love waits young and free, 
And through the open door looks out 
On those who pass by yearningly. 

And you may enter when you will 
And do as you most like to do . 
But don't forget to close the door 
Or someone else may enter, too ! 



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SONNET 

Perhaps, when I have tired of loving you, 

Have lost desire to kiss your curving lips 
Or smooth your tresses with my finger-tips, 

And have decided once more to renew 

The old familiar life among the hills 

That hump their backs against the granite sky, 
And am alone with the old nonh wind's cry 

And the weird, hollow sound of far-off rills — 

Then I shall wish that I had loved you more 

And shared with you my joys, 

my hopes, and fears. 

And all the beauty that I scorned before 
Will come and haunt me through the barren years, 

And loving you too late, I '11 keep on sighing, 

Dreaming a thousand deaths, but never dying. 



SERENATA 

Across the sands, I heard the blue waves singing, 

Singing a song of ecstacy. 
And while I walked, the monotone was bringing 

Its beauty to the soul of me. 

And though my songs are sung with mortal vision, 
And each is but a passing thing — 

If sometime I should sing with sea-born passion, 
The waves might try remembering! 



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This is the first book issued from the Private 
Press of Will Ransom at 14 West Washington Street. 
Chicago, U. S. A. 245 copies on Whatman hand- 
made paper have been printed from type on a hand 
press, and the type distributed. Design, lettering, 
composition, and presswork by Will Ransom, -with 
the assistance of Edmond A. Hunt. Binding by 
A. J. Cox & Company. Presswork finished Febru- 
ary 27, 1922. This copy is Number -^'^ -' 



Deacldifled using the Bookkeeper pre 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxidi 
Treatment Date: C C D 



_BBRREEP1 

PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIE: 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drwe 
Ctanberry Township. PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 




LIBRARY OF COMGRESS 

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